Sand Castles and Fairy Tale Endings
by flutiedutiedute
Summary: A look into the life; past, present, and future, of a certain Abigail Lockhart with a heaping tablespoon of reflection for good measure. Please R/R. *Epilogue up - 3/30/03*
1. Introduction

Sand Castles and Fairytale Endings

Part I: The Introduction  

Author: Robbie (gigglgrl26@hotmail.com)

Spoilers: Up through the Season 8 finale "Lockdown." However, bare in mind I might have taken some liberties along the way. 

Archive: Ask and you shall receive. 

Disclaimer:  While I'd love to be able to lay claim to every character in the story, not a one really belongs to me.  They are the property of the big shots at NBC, Warner Brothers, Amblin Productions etc … 

Summary: Musings on the generality of life from a beloved ER character. Read on to find out whom. 

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            I inhale deeply, the sweet sea air tickling my nostrils as my lungs expand.  Far off in the distance, the sun sets over the water.  Brilliant rays of orange and yellow light pierce the still air and reflect over the surface of the deep, dark ocean. 

Below me, on the beach, my daughter is kneeling in the sand, meticulously constructing a castle. Her younger sister stands over her shoulder, watching with eager anticipation.  The blue plastic pail she clutches between her chubby fingers swings from side to side as her tiny frame literally quivers in excitement. I watch as the elder of the two beckons and her sister flies off, quick as a bee, towards the shoreline.  Her feet leave a trail in the sand, marking her path with the indented footprints. For a moment, the tiny child stoops to the water, filling the pail with the salty fluid.  She is uncharacteristically still, concentrated entirely on her special task.  

Now she stands up, rising to full height on stout, toddler-like legs.  She turns around and begins to run back to where her sister is sitting near the crumbling castle.  Her feet are hitting the ground in different places, creating a new trail, forever ebbed into the tapestry of the past.  She doesn't even notice as half of the water in the pail sloshes to the ground, leaving wet, mushy sand in place of the dry grainy substance that was there only moments ago.  

In a short time, the high tide will come in and wash away all traces of her path.  And years from now, when we're all gone, no-one will be here to remember the steps my daughter took.  Her footprints will be covered with the footprints of other children, and washed away again by the tides, forever wiped from the face of this earth.  All traces of it can be taken away, but the past cannot.  The fact will always remain that on this very day, she ran across the sand and left a trail. Unlike nearly anything else on earth, the past is something that cannot be changed or erased; be it good or bad, happy or sad.       

This thought brings an odd sense of comfort and I sigh in contentment. The entire scene before me is so picturesque.  A soft breeze gently caresses the side of my face and blows my hair haphazardly about my face.  My daughters are below, content and happy.  I'm happy.  The sounds of the city are hundreds of thousands of miles away.  Hard as I strain, all I can hear is the sounds of the waves crashing, the wind blowing, birds chirping, trees swaying, or children laughing.  It's like a slice of heaven here, dropped from above as a respite from the trials and tribulations of daily life.  

Hawaii.

When I try to remember events of the past, certain times stick out among the blurred memories.  Among the more significant ones, there is Mark's death.  At the time, everybody was so consumed with shock and grief, we never took the time to understand things from his point of view.  After his death, everyone wondered why he hadn't given them a personal goodbye.  He couldn't. In retrospect, the death probably would have hurt even more if he had.  It would have drawn it out and made life just that much more hellish.  

We all wanted to know why he came to Hawaii to spend his last days.  Why not die among close friends in the stuffy hospital you've spent your life working in? Jacked up in some even stuffier room surrounded by flowers and cards that say "Get Well Soon" when you know that you won't.  He knew.  Mark was a good man, an excellent doctor, always the gentlemen with the open ear for discussion.  He was smart.  He knew that this was the place to die. That this was the last place to take your family to; a pit stop in a heavenly place on the way to the real thing. 

He knew. 

I always knew it would be hard for me to come here, knowing that this was where a respected colleague had spent his final days.  I knew that I wanted to come here for the experience, to help understand why Mark made the choice he did.  And I knew that coming here, I would have to be strong enough for two.  Strong enough so that my husband could draw the courage he needed from me. Mark had been his teacher, his mentor, his friend.  Mark could do no wrong in his eyes.  Mark was like a saint to him, a perfect angel glowing from above on a high pedestal.  

Gradually, without meaning to, he's become the new Mark Greene of the ER.  The source we all draw strength from.  The frame that holds us upright and the glue that keeps us together.  He's talented and skilled in what he does.  And he approaches each patient with the same rigorous compassion that Mark used to.  

You can imagine how shocked my husband was when I suggested for the first time that we travel here. To him, Hawaii had taken on a newer, sadistic image.  It was no-longer a place of beauty and relaxation for vacationers, but a place of death and sadness.  The first time I'd ever walked on the beaches of Hawaii was for our first vacation together as a couple.  It was only further proof of the fact I've never doubted: that Mark's death played a role in us coming closer together.  For that, I'm eternally grateful.  

Over the years, my husband's views have changed.  We come here with the kids every year for the week of our wedding anniversary.  It's a tradition.  A chance to bond together as a family, to take a break from life, to celebrate our marriage, and to remember Mark Greene.   

My eyes drift back down towards where the girls are playing. I look to see how the castle is coming along.   They've dumped the water on a pile of the sand, making it wetter and easier to mold.  Together, they work to shape the pile into a castle.  

I've never understood the childhood obsession with castles.  Most castles are large looming pieces of architecture with dark, ominous insides.  Hardly an ideal choice for a young lady's dream house.  Maybe it's as a result of every little girl's dream to be swept off her feet by a dashing young prince high on an equally beautiful white horse and be taken away to live as a princess.  Perhaps innocent story-tales like Snow _White or __Cinderella are to blame for these silly notions.  Stories that end in "Happily ever after …" as the lovely woman rides into the sunset with her very own Prince Charming.  These are the same harmless stories that we raise our children on from infancy. We hand our hard-earned money into the greedy hands of large corporations like Disney© and Warner Brothers© that produce the motion pictures and market the merchandise, without a second thought.   _

For what? Life sure isn't a fairy tale. 

No matter how you dissect it, life just doesn't work that way.  Many people find happiness, and there are those that never do.  Some people find happiness that is shortly followed by sadness, and some experience the reverse effect.  The truth is that there are very few people who never struggle with bouts of sadness, depression, or depravity.  Some for their whole lives, some only for days or hours.  But life isn't a fairy tale.  It would be too simple, too boring, and too bland.  

It wouldn't be life.  

What would life be without a little spice to add some flavor? If there was no sadness, there could be no joy.  Without a basis of comparison, there's no scale on which to gauge feelings.  There would be no feeling at all; just a bunch of people walking around in permanent vegetative numbness.  

Not like I should be one to talk.  I've certainly had my share of disappointment in life.  From the day I was born, my life has been difficult … 

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To be Continued? You tell me. 


	2. Establishing the Frame of Support

Sand Castles and Fairy Tale Endings

Part II: Establishing the Frame of Support

Author: Robbie (gigglgrl26@hotmail.com)

Spoilers: Up through the Season 8 finale "Lockdown." However, bare in mind I might have taken some liberties along the way. 

Archive: Ask and you shall receive. 

Disclaimer:  While I'd love to be able to lay claim to every character in the story, not a one really belongs to me.  They are the property of the big shots at NBC, Warner Brothers, Amblin Productions etc … 

Summary: Musings on the generality of life from a beloved ER character. Read on to find out whom. 

Note: I'm upping the rating to PG-13 for some minor swearing and possibly offensive subject matter.  

Many thanks to CorruptCarbyChickie and Chanie for reading this over for me.  You guys rock my socks!

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            My life hasn't been perfect by any means.  Since the day of my birth, there's been a struggle to survive on this earth.  

The eventful story of that fateful day goes somewhat like this: January 10, 1969, a very pregnant Maggie Wyczenski woke up with shooting pains going up and down her back.  Shortly after, as the pain intensified and a puddle of wetness appeared in the bed, she made a frantic call to her husband, Joseph.  Joe rushed home from his job as a mechanic at the gas station, and the happy newlyweds made their way to the nearest hospital. 

            Nearly 18 hours later, Maggie found herself in the delivery room, struggling to give birth to the stubborn child.  As the infant's head finally lowered into the opening of the birth canal, the doctors were chagrined to see that the umbilical cord wrapped tightly around her neck.  Dusky and barely breathing, Maggie and Joe's baby girl was whisked away to the NICU, not to leave the hospital until she was nearly 6 weeks old.   

            That night in the hospital after giving birth to me was the night that Maggie had her first Bi-Polar episode.  Before that, she'd had absolutely no indication that anything was wrong.  Twenty-three years of being a normal person without any medical problems. 

            In fact, Maggie had always been very popular in her youth.  She'd been captain of the varsity cheerleading squad both junior and senior years and was prom queen at her senior prom. She was the type of person everybody wanted to be friends with.  Beautiful, and friendly, with a bubbly, fun loving personality.  

             Maggie and Joe were high school sweethearts.  Joe's position as captain of the football team almost insured the meeting of the two teens. They immediately hit it off and from there; their relationship blossomed naturally from a platonic, sodas-after-school-with-classmates-type friendship into a full-blown romance.  Shortly after graduation, they'd proclaimed themselves soul-mates and vowed to marry after college.

            This wish finally came true in the summer of 1966, when they were re-united and promptly got married.  At 23, the couple found out that Maggie was pregnant.  At that point, their life was perfect, plucked from a fairy-tale.  They were both young and healthy.  They were both earning a fairly decent income at their jobs.  They lived in a quaint little house with a lush green lawn and a white picket fence and a baby was on the way. 

They were happy.  

            But as sure as life is no fairytale, everything suddenly changed. Life was no longer perfect; their relationship no longer flawless.  Maggie was sick. The new baby was sick.  And all happiness was temporarily (or so they thought) put on hold. 

And so it began.  The beginning of the end. The end of the beginning.  A never ending circle of blissful highs and rock-bottom lows.  Maggie and Joe, barely adults themselves, were thrust into the real world; the world full of tragic pain, sorrow and not-so-happy endings. Thrust head first into situations they'd never even imagined, without warning, as the beasts of fate reared their ugly heads.  The change was sudden, like a fiery red streak smashing into their lives, burning holes into their hearts and leaving all sorts of destruction in its wake that demanded repair.  

The doctors immediately put Maggie on all sorts of drugs to prevent any more outbreaks.  Maggie hated the drugs.  She claimed they stripped her of all creative ability and made her job impossible to do.  Joe struggled between his love and devotion to his wife which made him want to keep her happy, and the knowledge that she needed the meds to remain "normal."

            But normalcy would never again reign in the Wyczenski household.  The next grueling six weeks in the hospital would be spent battling over the medication and its implications.  Heated fights like the two had never before shared would ensue; interrupting the peace outside the solitude of the NICU, where troubled parents leaned upon each other for comfort and Joe and Maggie's own frail newborn fought for her life. The baby that had been expected with such eager anticipation was suddenly an afterthought, among new tribulations.  The tiny being that was supposed to bring them together as a family was breaking them apart inside and out. 

            They were stressed, fearing the worst for the baby's future.  Their future as a couple was even more ill-fated.  The angry, hateful words between them could never be taken back.  The terrible hurt was established once and for all, engraining itself like carved messages in the chambers of their hearts. 

            When I finally came home at six weeks old, things got a little bit better.  The doctors convinced Maggie she needed to take the drugs in order to care for the baby, whose health was, at best, rocky.  But her ambivalence towards the medication soon morphed into sheer animosity towards life and other things that had once brought happiness. She was quickly fired from her job and was confined to hours at home with only the company of her child. Joe was forced to take a second job to be able to support his wife and the baby and the newly added expenses that had suddenly arisen.  Maggie grew more and more depressed as time dragged on, and the euphoria of their synthetic happiness wore off.  

            The sickness acted like a stake that was driven between them.  A stake that soon morphed into a wooden fence, finally becoming a solid stone wall neither could cross.  This was my world those early years of my life, which is the crucial time a baby bonds with their family.  I was there for the fights, the fits of blind rage, yelling, screaming, hysteria, and sobbing.  I watched as they talked less and less, distancing themselves from each other and from me.  

            It took me a long time to realize that my life wasn't like the life of the other little girls I met and played with.  The realization came gradually when I was about 4.  At that age, I began to see other children interacting with their families and allowed myself to wonder what was so different about my family.  I wondered if something was wrong with my family and why we couldn't be like others.  

            I remember voicing these worries to Mom one night as she gave me my nightly bath.  For as long as I live, I'll never forget the look on her face.  It was indescribable, a motley mix of umpteen emotions, spilling out before my eyes.  

            Not even a month later, mom announced she was pregnant again.  Sure enough, roughly nine months later, my little brother Eric came into this world, with a much less eventful birth than my own.  It was that talk we had prior to Eric's sudden conception that always led me to wonder whether he was a last try to keep my parent's failing marriage together.  Don't get me wrong, I love my brother, but I simply can't shake the feeling that they hoped a new baby would bring them closer as a couple and us closer as a family. 

            Unfortunately, things don't often work out the way you'd like.  Sometimes, not only do things not exactly suit the purposes they're supposed to, but they come back to bite you in the ass. Hard. 

            And sadly, this was the case yet again; another bullet to add to the ever-growing list of sorrows and failures in the life of Maggie Wyczenski. 

            I suppose that Eric's birth really marked the point in my life when I was forced to grow up, and forever lose the innocence of my childhood.  With the stress of the new baby, Maggie snapped.  Joe was never home to help out, and the burden fell entirely on me, aged four. Suddenly everything changed. A new being came to live with us.  He was tiny and red, with shriveled warm skin. He was always with Mom, nursing, being rocked, being sung to, or wailing incessantly in her arms.  His needs were always first, before mine. If I fell and needed a hug, Mom's lap was full.  At that early age, I began to learn how to fend for myself. The way I saw things, he stole my life. Mommy wasn't Mommy anymore.

            And soon, like a mirror image of how things happened the first time around, Maggie got bored of her new responsibilities.  At four years old, I not only lost my mother, but I became one.  It was my job to make sure the baby was fed, clean, changed, content.  At first, I was bitter.  I hated Maggie for making this happen, I hated Joe for never being around, and I hated Eric.  

            But slowly, gradually, I learned to channel that anger into love.  And in retrospect, those early years together are probably the reason that Eric and I are so close.  And as things got easier and he got older, my life got better.  He learned to talk, and I had a pal.  

Then tragedy struck again. Just when things were getting better again, our lives were turned upside-down.  It was almost like we were riding on some insane, never ending roller coaster, with sharp turns and stomach-churning drops around every corner.  But this was slightly different.  It was our life.  

I'd just begun school.  Every morning, I would wake up and get dressed.  After a quick breakfast with the family which Daddy insisted on, whether or not Mommy was present, he would drive me the short way to the local elementary school.  I'd spend the morning in the kindergarten classroom, and take the bus home at lunch.  Then one morning, something happened that I have still to this day, never forgotten.

It started out completely normal.  I woke up, got dressed, ate breakfast, and got into the car with Daddy.  Every little detail of that ride is still imprinted in my mind; the color of the shirt he was wearing, the distinct scent of his cologne, the feel of his stubbly face beneath my trembling hand. We pulled out of the driveway, and he turned to me. "Abby dear, Daddy's not going to be coming home tonight." And I looked at him and smiled sweetly.  He turned his eyes back to the road. 

I was so damn naive.  

As we continued on the familiar route to the school, I noticed his brow crease together, knitting a strip across his face that vaguely resembled a sting of crochet Mommy had helped me create.  At the next stop-light, he turned to me again. "Sweety, it's going to be awhile until I might be able to see you again, but always remember how much your Daddy loves you." Again, I looked in his direction and smiled, nodding my head as the light flipped to green.  As we pulled into the school parking lot, he took my hand in his. "I guess this is good-bye, honey.  Can you give Daddy a kiss?" I was oblivious to his meaning, only picking up on the fact that this was more serious than the usual good-bye kiss he asked me for.  In my head, I can still hear my tiny voice piping up with a high pitched, "Bye-bye!" and see the younger version of myself lean across the seat and run a tiny hand across his stubbly chin.  I see myself lean forward, place a tentative kiss on his cheek, and turn around to get out of the car and into the school. 

And that would be the last time that I would ever lay eyes on Joseph Wyczenski, the man who called himself my father.  I would learn later that he ran off to Vegas with one of the female clerks at the gas station.  For awhile, he sent monthly update letters with money.  Slowly, the letters grew shorter, the money came in smaller amounts, and finally they ceased to come at all.  My fantasies that he would return with a new wife and whisk me away to a normal life trickled to a stop, and I began to face the life that was ahead of me. 

You would think that as time wore on; my memory would be obscured by other experiences, new memories, or simply the effects of time.  Not true.  It's almost funny how the memories that we retain the best are those that have caused us pain. To this day, every time I catch a whiff of the cologne he used, or touch a red corduroy fabric bearing a likeness to that of the jumper I wore that day, these images come back to haunt me.  I can see the entire scene play out in my head like a movie, complete with sharp color picture and surround sound. 

After that fateful morning, things do get a little bit fuzzier.  I can see Mom crying, Eric crying.  But never me.  As my fragile world came down around me, I struggled to hold things together, to be strong for my distraught mother and brother.  I began to build walls around my feelings, bottling them up inside and sealing them tightly.  I convinced myself that my bastard of a father had never loved any of us anyway and eventually came to terms with the fact that it was just Mom, Eric, and me.  

At that point, I was young and innocent enough to think that if I never let my emotions show, they would dissipate and I wouldn't have to deal with them.  The hypothetical bottle of emotions inside me would never open, if I sealed it tightly enough.  I could handle it.  _Just suck it up and smile became my mantra.  __You're too good to cry over him, I assured myself.  And to this day, I have difficulty opening up to people.  They say the habits you pick when you're young last a lifetime.  Whenever I feel pain or sorrow, my body goes on auto-pilot and I suck it up and smile.  Tried and true, the method seems like it should work, but somehow I always reach a breaking point.  A point where you're forced to deal with things, although your method doesn't necessarily help things much, you move on.  _

            We all healed in our separate ways, and at times I would almost say we were happy. I have memories of us laughing at the dinner table or on the couch in front of the television.  Memories of hosing each other off with the garden hose on hot days in the summer, building forts in the snow in the bitter cold winter, raking leaves and jumping in the tidy piles during the fall, and picnics in the local park every spring.  When we were little and Maggie was having a good day, we could get away with anything: finger painting the walls of the living room, eating s'mores for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or skipping school to go to the zoo.  

            Her bad days were worse, but we learned to live with those too. As Eric and I got older, we took care of Maggie.  I progressed from elementary to middle school, getting fairly good grades.  I was a quiet, high achiever, with few friends and a very inactive social life. I came home right after school every day to attend to Eric and sometimes Maggie, which left me no time to join extracurricular activities.  The inactivity of my life outside the house came as a hard blow to Maggie's ego.  I was the exact opposite of her in high school.  Where she'd been outgoing and popular, I was shy and dull.  Where she'd been involved in many activities, I confined myself to the house and concentrated on my studies.  

            From an early age, I swore that I would make something of my life.  I made sure that I did well in school to get a good start so that my adult life would better.  I struggled to stay ahead, to stay afloat in the pool of sorrows.  I couldn't drown. 

            And life continued much as it had before.  Good times, bad times, times in between.  Before I knew it, I was off to college.  Off to begin a new chapter of my life, a chapter I hoped would be shrouded with luck and pleasure, love and happiness. 

            Reminiscing about my early life isn't something that has always been easy.  Despite how long ago it was, I just can't help the feelings of unresolved anger and resentment that arise.  It's like suddenly, I'm four years old again and all of the tender wounds are opened and gushing with emotions that I never dealt with.  I'm angry and hurting; and once again the pain I feel brings me back to a time when these events weren't 30 years old.  Unexpectedly, my veins are throbbing with sentiments that can't be cured.  

It used to be that I would lose myself all over again.  All it took was a short while with my thoughts and questions about the past and it would send me into a bout of depression.  An instantaneous spiraling downwards into the depths of my unrequited soul as all progress with overcoming things I'd made flew out the window.  Years of therapy and healing would be washed down the drain in seconds.  

But things are different now that I'm happy.  Even if I've never forgiven or forgotten the past, I can deal with things so much better now.  It's just one of the amazing things motherhood has done for me.  Every time I'm angry with my parents, all it takes is a look into the cherub-like faces of one of my daughters.   The overwhelming pride and love I feel just by seeing them is enough to overpower any bitterness that still exists within me.  And the ability to cope with my feelings allows me the opportunity to reflect upon my life.  Lately, reflection has been giving way to forgiveness.  

I sigh again. The basic shape of their castle has been constructed.  The girls are beginning to shape the wet sand from an amorphous mass into a series of finer details … towers, columns, and designs on the walls as the beginnings of the moat are starting to take shape.  Darkness is fast approaching, but for now, the fleeting light from the setting sun envelops me like a downy comforter against the breeze.  Seeing my daughters, products of the love between my husband and me, fills my heart with a bursting joy.  For once, I'm completely satiated in life.  

For once, I'm truly happy.     

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**Authors note: I really appreciate all the kind reviews.  While I feel it's important not to write just to get feedback, it does help fuel inspiration for continuance on my part.  For that reason, as usual, I'd love to hear thoughts, comments, and suggestions.  Helpful criticism is welcome too, should you have something of that nature to share.  I have another couple of parts planned if this first chapter following the prologue is well received, so let me know.  Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed.    **


	3. Learning From Our Mistakes

Sand Castles and Fairytale Endings

Part  III: Learning From Our Mistakes … 

Author: Robbie (gigglgrl26@hotmail.com)

Spoilers: Up through the Season 8 finale "Lockdown." However, bare in mind I might have taken some liberties along the way. 

Archive: Ask and you shall receive. 

Disclaimer:  While I'd love to be able to lay claim to every character in the story, not a one really belongs to me.  They are the property of the big shots at NBC, Warner Brothers, Amblin Productions etc … 

Summary: Further insight into the events that shaped Abby's life from her POV.  

Many thanks to Sara for reading this over for me.  I wuff ya!  

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My life has been filled with disappointments of all shapes and sizes.  There were times when I would have given anything for a moment full of happiness.  Then there were times when I convinced myself I was happy and content.  But it was all a game.  I see that now, now that I know what happiness truly is.   

Applying for college is one of the most grueling processes there is; paper after boring paper, the same information asked for over and over again.  First name, middle initial, last name, birth-date, address, etc … And then you have to make hundreds of copies of high school transcripts, recommendations, samples of your writing, even test scores.   

During my junior year of high school, as others around me were constantly griping about the inconvenience, I took solace.  Filling out form after form of the same uniform information brought a sense of familiarity to what was a scattered and crazy life.  It was constant, unchanging; something I sought with an enthused vigor.  Filling out applications gave me the chance to spend some time alone and uninterrupted with my thoughts. For once, Maggie had insisted that I have quiet no matter what.  In the dark solitude of my bedroom, I was able to explore the inner depths of my soul and create a game plan for my life. A life I swore to myself would be filled with success.   

 The papers I would mail symbolized the beginning of this new chapter of my life.  They were like the escape plan I'd always craved, a plane ticket to anywhere.  I had the rest of my life at my disposition.  Looking back, it was a positive time.  My mind was filled with childish notions that my life would suddenly change as soon as I left and become what I thought everyone else had. 

I quickly learned that more grueling than the application process was the waiting game that you're forced to play after everything has been sent in.  Like a six month flu bug, it hits early senior year.  The symptoms aren't uniform, but most seem to show signs of it.  For me, waking up breathless and shaking, heart pounding after another nightmare became normal.  Not a day passed without that churning nervous feeling in my stomach each time I walked to the mailbox with shaking hands and sweaty palms.       

When the first letter arrived, I wasn't sure whether to jump for joy or run to the nearest bathroom and empty the remains of my undigested lunch.  All at once, my heart was pounding and I felt so lightheaded and giddy, I had to sit down.  I can recall Maggie begging to take my temperature and make sure I hadn't come down with some awful disease.  Sitting in our small, warm kitchen, I gently fingered the edges of the envelope and readied myself for anything.  You can imagine how surprised I was when Maggie snatched the letter out of my hands, tore it open in two seconds flat and began to read the letter.  I can still remember the sinking feeling of nausea that settled in my stomach as her face fell.  "You're too good for that stupid place anyway," she had declared, crumpling the paper into a tiny ball.    

Rejection. 

It stung.  Stung like hundreds of miniature needles being pressed into my body over every corner of bare space. My chest felt like the aftermath of a hundred thousand elephant stampede.  Smarting tears sprung to my eyes, burning the backs of my eyelids as I struggled not to let the droplets escape.  

            To put it lightly, it wasn't the greatest foot to start off on.   I was easily swayed into believing that my entire life was destined to be a failure.  I wasn't good enough for college, but without it, my life was toast.  My future went from a gooey-deluxe chocolate cake, sweet and sumptuous, into dry, stale crumbs on the floor waiting to be smashed under a tennis shoe. 

            It was the first time in my life that I'd let myself down.  Before, it was always the fault of someone else; my mother or father, a friend, teacher, or fellow student.  This time, I'd failed myself by not working hard enough, not doing well enough, not being able to get into that school.  And frankly, it felt like crap.  

            More letters arrived, but I refused to open them.  There was no point in hoping for acceptance only to re-experience the dumbfounding let-down of rejection.  I think Maggie secretly opened them after I'd gone from the room.  She had to have, or she never would have been able to know about that one letter that would make my future.  An acceptance. 

            An acceptance to Penn State. 

            My ticket to a new life.  The opening paragraph of the new chapter.  My chance to make something of myself.    All of a sudden the sinking feelings of despair dragging me down were lifted off my shoulders as if the letter contained one of those massive yellow cranes used for construction.  Optimistic and excited Abby resumed her position in the Wyczenski household as the entire family began to make preparations.  Eric and Mom preparing to cope without me and I, readying myself for the exhilarating new journey I was about to embark on.     

            When I first arrived, school wasn't the walk-in-the-park I'd expected.  Socially, I felt lost in the crowd. My roommate was quiet and secluded; though bore an air about her that demanded respect.  Though she had difficulty opening up to me, I could sense she was a very authoritative figure simply immersed in her studies without the time or energy to give a second thought to much else.  I eventually learned to revere her as the reserved person she was.  

Other kids around the campus were wild and crazy, unlike those I'd known in the quaint little Minnesota town I'd grown up in since infancy.  Many of the girls in Pennsylvania seemed to have either a sophisticated and chic New York City look about them or they were off-the-wall hippies.  The guys were either perpetually high, unrealistically preppy, or hippies.  I just didn't seem to fit in very well with the general crowd.  I was everything they were not.  Being in a brand new place, the differences certainly didn't serve to my advantage. 

Academically, on the other hand, I found the work load to be about as stressful as high school.  The material wasn't much harder and the amount of work was entirely bearable.  I was finally taking classes that interested and intrigued me, and found that I was able to fully absorb myself in them. By the end of the first semester, my grades were excellent, but I was lonely. 

I hadn't found the time or the energy to make friends.  While all the others around me had gradually developed their exclusive little cliques, I'd been studying in the library or working on my newest research paper or assignment.  Even my socially detached roommate was better off than me.  She'd suddenly become infatuated with a tall, blond-haired, brown-eyed hippie who'd gradually encouraged some engaging experimental behavior in her bedroom.  

I craved the human companionship and camaraderie only a solid friendship could provide.  I'd re-built walls around myself, not letting anybody in, and as a result, I was undeniably, seemingly unchangeably alone in my own dark little world.  

And one day, as these thoughts whirred through my over-worked mind, I sat in a little coffee shop not far from the campus, on the verge of tears.  I'm sure that the pitiful image brought truth to the saying 'drown your sorrows in a cup of coffee,' the slogan of the shop.  The way I was sitting, looking lost and forlorn, always left me wondering why he came over to sit by me that day.  He was tall, with lush blond curls, baby blue eyes, and a confident, poised and debonair manner.  Couldn't he see that we were complete foils for one another? 

Either he was just oblivious and didn't notice, or didn't let it stop him.  He walked right up to me and pulled the seat across me out from under the table with a piercing screech.  Set his elbows on the table and leaned towards me, shrugging out of his suave leather jacket.  I could tell he worked out by his muscular upper arms and the faint six-pack etched beneath the folds of his cottony shirt.  I can remember that all of a sudden, I felt numb, my sorrows erased, as I became entranced by the watery clear blue of his eyes.  Though small, they seemed to capture the essence of the clear sky on a bright summer day and lead me into a world where there was no pain, sorrow, or emptiness. 

"You're looking awfully sad for such a pretty little lady," he crooned with a slight southern drawl.  Instantly, I was totally, completely, head-over-heels in love with this beautiful stranger.  From there, everything sort of blossomed naturally.  We began to talk and I learned that his name was Richard Lockhart.  We became quick friends, and before long … something more.    

I would always wonder why I picked that day and time to take a break from my work.  Perhaps it was the dreariness of the northern winter that was finally getting to me, or perhaps my desperate longing for the sounds of other living, breathing beings prompted the need to be in a crowded coffee shop.  I wondered whether our meeting was fated or coincidence.  Had fate yet again dealt me a cruel blow?  Or was my luck finally changing for the better?  

In retrospect, there really isn't an answer to the question.  Meeting Richard was exactly what I needed at that point in my life.  He gave me companionship, an open ear for discussion on a lonely night and a hand to hold in the darkness.  He led me out of the dark and into a place that was so much happier and gave me such a blissful sense of fullness with my new life.  Even if I didn't have absolutely everything I wanted, I made myself believe it was enough and I was happy. 

With Richard by my side, the rest of college whizzed past.  Our platonic friendship slowly developed into a steady romantic relationship as I felt myself falling in love with my beautiful stranger.  The next thing I knew, we were at college graduation, throwing our caps into the air as Richard pulled me close to him and whispered a quiet proposal into my ear. My world was set into slow motion as he produced a ring from the pocket of his suit and slipped it onto my finger. 

We were married in July of that summer in a small ceremony in a South Carolinian country club owned by friends of his parents.  We'd both taken an extreme interest in the medical profession, and come fall planned to go on to medical school.  As we spent our honeymoon in Orlando, Florida a week later, I made a decision that I would always regret.  

As something in my life that was always important but was never able to complete, medical school could be considered one of my failures.  The saddest part of the story is that the major issue was and always has been money.  Since my sophomore year of college, I've known that I wanted to go into medicine.  But after my marriage to Richard, money was very tight.  He and I agreed that I would go through the quicker nurse training and get a job to support him through medical school.  Once he got a job, I could go back to school supported by him.          

This was one of the first in a series of decisions I made that would prove to be fatal to our short-lived happiness.  In my efforts to keep Richard content, I went out of my way so far, the real meaning of things became lost.  Merely to keep him happy, I lost track of what was important to me to achieve and forced myself to abandon and forget all the goals I'd previously set.  In that way, the decay of our marriage was as much my fault as it was fates.

There are things in life that you just can't change.  You do the very best you possibly can, but that's all you can do.  You can also learn to make do with what you have.  Sometimes, elaborating on what's there can set a more wholesome approach on things.  With Richard and me, things started out so well but silently turned sour without us noticing. 

Things became less about the love we shared and more about mundane inanimate objects of no real value; save monetary.  Small problems such as a broken glass or spilled milk turned into full blown arguments and fights.  But it took me too long to realize that life is too short to spend that way.  By the time I learned to value each moment on earth as it truly should be, our situation was beyond repair.

Deep in depression, I used to wonder what the purpose of my chance meeting with Richard really was in the grand scheme of things.  I wondered what the point of my glimpse into contentment that was so swiftly taken out from under me really was.  I figured that it would have been better never to be happy at all than to know what I was truly missing out on. 

But, now, as I watch my girls bringing as much truth as they can to their fantasies through the sand castle, I understand.  I believe now, that everything that happens is for a reason.  Richard was the first person who truly taught me to love and instilled in me the value of sacrifice for those that we love.  And as our relationship became tainted with bitterness, and I made mistakes that cost us dearly, I also learned the limits of these values.  

As we grew apart, I learned the true depths of what sorrow could do to a person.  Together, we were at our worst.  But things have worked out.  And with our separate significant others, we're now at our best, having benefited from the mistakes we made the first time around. 

Fate knows what its doing.  

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I realize that this is sort of a weird place to end this chapter, but if people are still interested, I'd like to take the next chapter and delve into the problems with Richard and Abby's marriage.  Let me know what you think!  Feedback is appreciated …         


	4. Pink, Blue and the Colors In Between

Sand Castles and Fairytale Endings

Part  IV: Pink, Blue and the Colors in Between …  

Author: Robbie (curlygurly87@hotmail.com)

Spoilers: Up through the Season 8 finale "Lockdown." However, bare in mind I might have taken some liberties along the way. 

Archive: Ask and you shall receive. 

Disclaimer:  While I'd love to be able to lay claim to every character in the story, not a one really belongs to me.  They are the property of the big shots at NBC, Warner Brothers, Amblin Productions etc … 

Summary: Further insight into the events in life that helped to shape Abby Lockhart, from her POV. 

Sara, my dear … thanks a ton and a half for going over this for me!

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            It's funny sometimes to think about the silly little things that make the biggest differences in our lives.  There are many people who keep things that most would consider junk when in their minds, these scraps of paper or moldy pieces of gum have such greater meaning.  Isn't it every woman's wish to take her young, bright-eyed grandchild into her lap in a cozy rocking chair and drag out a cardboard box full of trinkets and gadgets that should have been thrown away years before but have some adverse sentimental value? And one by one, she'll pull out each scrap of paper, each tiny piece of contorted plastic or metal, and tell the sleepy child the story or memory stemming from a mere viewing of one of the objects. 

               Then again, there are also insignificant pieces of processed materials that, with the ounce of information they divulge, change your life permanently. For example, in my years working at hospitals, I've dealt with a forest's worth of paper.  But each piece, as insignificant in the general scheme of things as it seems, divulged some fact or number that led to a diagnosis or a plan of treatment.  Sometimes, it could be as simple as to alert a doctor of presence of a bacteria or virus indicating a common, curable cold.  Other times, the slip of paper reveals a life-threatening cancer or debilitating disease that leaves the patient with nothing to do but wait for their inevitable and often impending death.

            Of course, when you look at certain instances, the outcome of the newly disclosed information is all in the eye of the beholder.  Such is the case I've experienced now, over four times.  Each time, it all came down to a little piece of cold white plastic and the difference between two simple colors; pink and blue. 

            As I've found, the distinction in my current situation in life proved to make all the difference in reference to my feelings concerning the color that appeared on the little applicator stick.  More so, the man standing by my side (or lack of) during the first viewing of the results also helped to color the feelings. 

            Fear. 

            Prime suspect in the investigation into feelings when viewing a pregnancy test.  Also, not surprisingly, the overshadowing instigator of all more minor feelings of doubt, frustration, insecurity.  Many times, the fear eventually gives way to a mind-numbing happiness, and euphoric excitement.  But at other times, darker and unsupported times, the fear slowly grows, gaining nourishment from your insecurity and swiftly becoming a demon; sharp fanged and grotesque.  The fear consumes you, influencing your behavior and decisions.  

            Such was the case that fateful evening when I found out I was pregnant with Richard's child.  Things between us had been strained for months.  He was busy with medical school, and I was struggling to pay the bills while at the same time battle with my ambitions to go to medical school and get out of nursing versus devotion to Richard's own ambitions.  A baby was not the thing to repair a breaking marriage, as I'd witnessed first-hand with the birth of my brother Eric.  

            And, being the young and rash individual I was back then, I made the decision that seemed best.  The decision that seemed the easiest and that would cause the least harm; damn the consequences.  

            I got an abortion. 

            Killed my unborn child, the helpless life created by me and the man who was my husband.  The same man I'd promised to love and cherish, to honor with my word, and be with in sickness and health, sorrow and joy.  But the fear that consumed me was too powerful, too overbearing and condescending.  

            It was swift and at the moment, painless.  Over in minutes, I could barely utter an apology before the life of my child was cruelly and abruptly ended for eternity.  It temporarily solved my motherhood issues, halted thoughts of a baby Maggie being brought into this world, into my life, under my care.  At the time, I would never have guessed that the thirty minutes I spent in that clinic would mean the end of a marriage, and cause me a spiritual anguish so extreme, I craved physical pain. 

            Not a month after the abortion, still shrouded in a dark mourning my husband couldn't share in, I turned to alcohol and began the slow but sure descent into alcoholism.  The guilt I felt was so strong, I couldn't bring myself to tell Richard.  He lost the ability to get through to me, and soon stopped trying.  To cure his own lustful inclinations, he began to turn to others, co-workers, women in bars, prostitutes, or anyone he could get his hands on.  

            We still lived together, sharing the same bed at night, but we were living in two separate worlds.  I found that I couldn't cope with the overwhelming loneliness, and the alcohol gave me a blissful release from the stresses of my world.  And Richard, obviously seeking the comfort I couldn't give him turned to other women.  

            We lived like that for around a year, skirting around our delicate feelings, never talking, never sharing anything with each other.  He knew I was hurting myself with addiction to alcohol, and I knew he had yet to face the ramifications of his womanizing days.  And yet … we lived together, under the false pretense that everything would work out eventually on its own.  We lived under an umbrella of lies, deceit, and deception. 

            For the most part, he kept his other women away from me.  I would find smudges of lipstick on his laundry, but I ignored it.  Unaccounted for charges at expensive restaurants and hotels began to appear on our bills, but I made pitiful excuses for him and paid like the faithful wife I was.  I didn't ask questions when I knew perfectly well that his shift ended in the early afternoon and he didn't show up at home until morning, reeking of the perfume of the woman he'd slept with. 

            But the last straw came the night I came from a long nursing shift at the hospital I was working at and found him in bed with some little blond bimbo with a chest the size of Pamela Anderson's.  By that point, I'd had it.  Twelve months of frustration, frazzled nerves, and anger poured out from mouth.  I confronted him, he confessed, apologizing profusely and I left him. 

            Within in the next two weeks, I found myself an apartment on the other side of the city and left him the house and most of the furnishings.  Not long after, I resigned my position as a junior ICU nurse at the hospital he was working at and found a brand new job as a nurse in Cook County General's Obstetrics ward.   

            I spent the next six months working up in OB, amid happy parents and their newborns.  Despite the tormenting despair I felt, I was able to live vicariously through the delight they expressed.  And for awhile, that was enough.  I was finally on my own, doing a job I loved and I made myself believe it was enough. 

            As terms of our divorce, Richard was required to pay my way through medical school as I'd done for him.  While picking up shifts in OB to make a living, that summer, I entered my first year of medical school, finally partaking in the dream I'd harbored since childhood.       

            And so, stumbling my way through the mundane activities of everyday life, I entered a new era of my life.  My days were filled with anxious parents and the arrival of wailing newborns and the joy they bring.  Nights were spent cramming for tests over steaming cups of coffee or frothy hot chocolate. Looking back, things were a blurred mess of activity, a hurricane of events where sleep was wedged in at random, inconvenient places.        

            Despite the chaos, and the struggle I faced opening my eyes every morning, it was another high point.  Sometimes, that constricted feeling like I was fighting a loosing battle against a current that showed no signs of easing would overcome me.  But I persevered, knowing better times were ahead.  I got involved with AA to overcome my alcohol addiction and slowly muddled through life.      Med school was going well, my social life was nonexistent, but things were going okay.  I began a rotation in ER, totally oblivious that this would be my last rotation as a med-student.  

            A rotation filled with stress, tragedy, action, and a wagon-load of information and learning.  It was during that rotation that I first met the people that I worked with for years after and who became like my extended family, though some more than others; and also the rotation that I experienced the trauma and grief of loosing a friend.  A fellow med student, respected colleague, and beautiful young woman who's live was cruelly snatched away at the hands of a sick man's knife.  

            Lucy Knight. 

            After her death, my life suddenly didn't seem so bad.  I was alive, living, walking, breathing, learning while her viciously mauled body lay rotting under ground in a wooden coffin.  Her tragically short life put to an abrupt halt.  She had her entire life ahead of her – med school graduation, a successful job, a husband, kids? No one will ever know what could have become of her spunky, cheerful attitude if she'd not gotten in the way of Paul Sobricki's knife that Valentine's evening. 

            If anything, suffering through that ordeal, though I was barely on a first name basis with anyone down in the ER, we grew closer together.  I felt like I could talk to them, share a cup of coffee in the lounge with them, or even have lunch in the hospital cafeteria with a select few.  

            And before I knew it, things were changing rapidly around me.  Carol Hathaway left Chicago to be with her fiancée and their daughters, whom I'd delivered in Seattle.  Mark Greene and Elizabeth Corday had suddenly become quite cozy with one another and poor Luka took to brooding moodily around the place the moment Carol vanished.  And I found John Carter, a man I felt tremendous respect and camaraderie towards, shooting up narcotics in an empty trauma room. And then we broke for summer, only for me to come back and find that my dead beat ex-husband hadn't paid my med school bills.  

            The anger I felt for Richard around that point in my life must have surpassed it at any other time.  Sure, I was angry when he cheated on me with that blond bimbo, but I suppose I always imparted some of that blame onto myself for not trying harder to make things work between us or being a better wife to him.  But not complying with the terms of our divorce agreement after I'd worked my ass off and put my own career on hold to send through school, that was positively the last straw.  

            The anger consumed me, burning up from my stomach like bile and leaving a sickly taste in my mouth.  My hands shook, and my head spun and throbbed with all-powerful consuming rage.  I took actions and said words so out of character for myself that it almost seemed that the essence of me had been removed from my body and all that stood in its place was an older, angrier, shadow of what I'd once been.  And I told him so.  

            Not that it made much of a difference.  When push comes to shove, he was still the same bastard I'd married too young for false love.  The same pathetic excuses sprung forth from the same round, red lips in the same southern twang that I'd fallen for so many years ago.  But now, far from turning me on, his words upped the temperature in my broiler and my rage exploded like a water balloon, covering him in its 'wetness.'  I wanly wished for an oversized needle, its sharp silver glinting in the pale moonlight to stab into his inflated ego and permanently puncture and deflate it.  

            Only now can I look back on that time without contempt, without that listless ache in my stomach for that caliber of action that comes with being an MD. Because I know I'm good at what I'm doing. I'm happy being a nurse; it leaves me the time to be a mother to my daughters, ultimately he most important thing in my life.  I know that my job is just as important as the doctors I work with, because while I answer to them and I'm constantly second to their authority, they only deal with the immediate medical problems of the patient before sending them on their merry way.  But as a nurse, I deal with the person behind the medical problems; holding a trembling hand, smoothing a sweaty forehead, calming anxiety torn patients and getting to know their stories.  

            I don't get paid as much or receive as much recognition when someone is saved, but when I come home at night to my husband and children, it's enough to know that I've done the best I could and helped people.  Doctors would be helpless without blur of behind- the-scenes action that is the team of nurses who really treat the patient.  I'm satisfied to have helped and thankful for every day that I can walk out of the hospital on my own two feet and through the threshold of our lovely abode.     

            Over the years, I've become even more confident in my place in the general scheme of things.  I'm a nurse today because I love being a nurse and helping people in the special way that only nurses can. I've also learned to forgive Richard for doing what he did to me.  Everything seems to ultimately happen for a reason, despite the immediate, often negative consequences.  Because I'm a nurse, I have more time for my family.  Without Richard's negative input in that, I might today be doctor.  Because he cheated on me and we divorced, I've found even greater happiness with my new family.  But because we were married and at some time loved each other, I learned about making mistakes and have made sure not to let certain things happen this time around.  

            They say you only find love once in your life.  But they're wrong.  When I met Richard, he was everything I needed and more and I learned to love him dearly.  And I would suppose that part of me still does.  But the greater part of me has let myself fall totally and completely in love with my husband and I devote my all to him and our family.  

            This is the precise reason that I can't break the hearts of my daughters by explaining that their lives won't be as easy as the ones of Cinderella and Snow White.  They have devoted their evening to their fantasy and built their sand castle with painstaking precision and care, despite the fact that the tide will eat away at it tonight and it'll be gone by morning.  One day they'll have to leave the shelter of my house and my protection and go on with their own lives, learning by experience and by pain as we all must do.  

            My job as a mother is to protect my offspring, but in doing that I can't deny my children the chance to learn and experience things for themselves.  Eventually they'll break free and fly with the wind.  And for now, my job is to let them dream of the things that are to come.  And that's exactly what I do.  

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	5. Sand Castles and Fairytale Endings: The ...

Sand Castles and Fairytale Endings

The Epilogue

Author: Robbie (gigglgrl26@hotmail.com)

Spoilers: Up through the Season 8 finale "Lockdown." However, bare in mind I might have taken some liberties along the way. 

Archive: Ask and you shall receive. 

Disclaimer:  While I'd love to be able to lay claim to every character in the story, not a one really belongs to me.  They are the property of the big shots at NBC, Warner Brothers, Amblin Productions etc … 

Summary: Musings on the generality of life from a beloved ER character. Read on to find out whom. 

Note: I'm upping the rating to PG-13 for some minor swearing and possibly offensive subject matter.  

Authors Note: Firstly, I'd like to give a shout out to Chanie for lending me the use of one of her brilliant ideas that I've used in this chapter.  You're kind, my dear! Secondly, I wanted to extend a heartfelt thank you to all those that have reviewed thus far, this fic has been like a child to me that I've finally decided to conclude.  I was originally going to go back and write a couple of chapters in between this epilogue and the last chapter, but I recently realized that it doesn't really need it all that badly.  It's only taken almost a year to come to this decision, although this chapter has been written for just that long! Please let me know what you think, and again, thanks to any faithful readers who even remember this story! Maybe I'll go back someday and add some more to the middle, but for now, here you are. Enjoy … 

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            Happiness isn't something that can be defined.  It's different depending on who you ask.  For some people, it's money.  For others, it's the things that money can buy.  But for me, sitting here with the love of my life, and our beautiful baby who has her entire future ahead of her, nestled happily in my arms, I know true happiness.  The man sitting by my side is so much more than my husband.  He's my partner, my best friend, my confidant, my lover, my soul-mate. He brings out the best in me, and I in him.  There's nothing I can't tell him, nothing I can't say. He reads me like a book.  And all it takes to cheer me up no matter what's wrong is the comforting feel of his arm around my shoulder or his hand intertwined with mine.  That's all I need to feel his love seeping into my pores, warming me from the inside out. 

            I look down to the water where the girls are washing themselves in the tide, their finished masterpiece a few feet behind them. They are both beautiful, gorgeous little treasures that share a motley assortment of features from both John and I.  Their very existence is a symbol of our love for each other, an example of the amazing things that can come of such a love like we share. 

Even my love for them is not something that can be measured.  I only hope that they know.  I hope they can sense it through my actions as I raise them, as we raise them together.  I want everything for them.  If the world was at my beckon and call, they would have anything they desired.  But the truth is, someday, they'll have to move on and create their own lives.  It is my greatest wish that they'll find the overwhelming happiness that I have.  

            The sun has finally dropped below the horizon and night has swept its cape-like darkness across the land.  The stars shine brightly, bathing the beach in an almost heavenly glow. The girls run, hand-in-hand, towards the porch where we sit and John squeezes my hand as he rises to meet them.  He waves in their direction and turns to me, cocking his head to the side. 

            "Let's go take a moonlit stroll on the beach." His eyes are dancing, and I feel as if the love they emanate is caressing my cheek. Despite my exhaustion, some unknown force causes me to nod as I feel a smile spread across my face.  The power he has over me has won again. 

"Go.  I'll be there in a second. " He nods and walks down the few stairs to meet the girls halfway to the landing where we sit.  I can hear their murmuring voices, lilting sounds as their words are carried away by the breeze.  As I make a move to stand up, the baby's eyes open and she blinks for a moment before turning to focus on my face. She looks at me like I own the world.  Again, that same smile spreads across my face.  I gently graze my finger across the silky skin of her cheekbone and press a soft kiss to her forehead.  Then, shifting her to my shoulder, I rise and descend the short flight of stairs to where my family stands. 

My family. 

In all my life, I never thought that I could be a normal person with a normal family. But just look at me now: I have three amazing daughters, and a perfect husband.  The most perfect family that I could ever have imagined in my wildest dreams. My family.  

It's times like this that I wonder.  Maybe there is some truth to fairytales.  In every example that I can think of, the life of the heroine starts out badly and goes from bad to worse.  But from worse, things begin to get better.  The heroine finds happiness and is rescued by her knight in shining armor. They ride off into the sunset on his horse to go home to his lavish castle and live happily ever after.  And maybe I'm a hypocrite, but that basic plot seems to mirror my life pretty well.  Maybe it's a coincidence.  Or maybe it's fate.  

Because when I look at my life … and the thought of spending the rest of my days on earth waking up beside John every morning enters my mind, I'm content.  I'm looking ahead to it with anticipation. The way I see it, each person has a story, the story of their life.  And the way my ending is shaping up to look like, I'll be finishing with those three little words I used to hate so much.  _Happily ever after …  _

Maybe all of the stories we tell our children aren't just make-believe.  The money we spend buying them the memorabilia isn't spent in vain.  Maybe the childhood obsession with castles is one that can metaphorically morph into reality when the knight in shining armor that is really true love comes into their lives.  Maybe we all have a chance to live happily ever after in our own little castles.     

We're walking along the beach now.  The grainy sand feels refreshingly cold and smooth between my bare toes.  The moonlight tinges his face in a warm light, accenting every perfect little feature of the face I have come to hold so dear.  Beneath the blanket of stars etched in the vast expanse of sky, John and I are walking together side by side. His muscular arm is draped around my shoulder and I'm holding the baby by the waist, dipping the tips of her toes in the water.  The grin plastered across her face is priceless as each time the tide tickles the bottom of her foot she makes a little sound that is a cross between a surprised shriek and a bemused chuckle.  The girls are running after each other in a self-employed game of tag a couple of feet ahead of where we're walking.   

We're walking and talking and laughing.  I'm pondering on the finer points of life, fate, and the past and future.  Questions of the truth in fairy tales will always make me wonder, but for now, I know the truth.  I've found happiness.

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_~ Fine ~_

Authors Note II: Well folks, that's it.  I've really enjoyed writing this fic and it is my hope that you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. 


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